Tea Time & Fairy Stories
by oi-oi-oi
Summary: A story following the events that led to JM Barrie's novella, 'Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens'. Who was the inspiration for Solomon Caw and little Miss Maimie? Who really knows what happens to children who stay in the Gardens after Lock Out Time?
1. Evening Tea, Mr Barrie!

Tea Time & Fairy Stories

Disclaimer: As it is all the fashion to have these posted just above each and every writer's story, I will conform and have one too. I do not own J.M. Barrie or anyone from the movie or real life...only the unfamiliar characters I have created. Any resemblance is purely coincidental....Please, enjoy.

**P.S. Yes I revised this story...and all reviews were cancelled, but my responses to them are still on the next chapter! I'm so sorry for the change, but my computer is evil.

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"Oh, Good God, I said carrots, brussels, and spuds! You only bought carrots!" The maid put her oily and rather sore

hands into the crickety straw basket. She dug out the ingredients of the large basket, and a frown gradually twisted onto her fat, glistening forehead.

"I know, I'm so sorry, mam." Said another voice, rather unlike the former—this one was very monotone and, deep within it's soulless farce, was the strongest, most putrid terror and fear. "I'm sorry."

"Oh…" The voice was strained and quite breathless, "You're no use, are you?"

There was a pause, as the other maid tried to find the correct answer to this particularly unkind comment—"No, mam."

Another maid, somewhere off in the corner of the hot kitchen, said. "Not like we don' hav maids and cooks up the earhole in this 'ouse! What's the 'use of 'nother?"

"I gave you a list," Said the first and fattest maid, "I gave you a list, Miss Leary! See, you're holding it—it says carrots, brussels, and spuds…can't you read, my dear?"

There was another pause, as Miss Leary tried to think, "A little, mum."

"A little! Never mind, it doesn't matter." The maid took the basket from Miss Leary, and placed it on the sliced wooden table, "Though, I don't know what I'll do for dinner, my dear! Mr. Barrie does love his brussels so…"

Miss Leary merely swallowed her nervous spit down in a giant gulp, and she slunk off clear to the other side of the room, like a frightened kitten. She was a shy, wide-eyed, skittish sort—who never said a word more than was necessary. She was a few weeks fresh migrating from Kildare, Ireland, and she had made no attempt, thusfar, to make any spectacle of herself. Indeed, many a person (including Jack and George) thought that she held the power to make herself as invisible as a pane of glass.

Well, now—do you see that graying, wiry maple stick of a woman, up yonder by the black stove? The one who is bent over the cooking pan like one of Macbeth's witches stirring a bubbling, foamy orange and yellow liquid, gingerly shaking in the spices (with almost awesome care), and rolling her beady blue eyes all over the kitchen? Yes? Well good, because that maid's name is Mrs. Roberta Finch. She is a cook and, by the suspicions of many a child, is also an old witch—who Mr. Barrie caught while up in the North of Manchester.

And do you see the plump one? The maid as fat as an overstuffed Christmas goose (and just as greasy as one too)? That one is Emily Bailey, as calm-tempered as a July wind one moment and as ferocious as a tiger the next. But, quite luckily for Miss Leary, Mrs. Bailey had grown a certain, distant fondness for new maids, and she was ready to dismiss any mistake a beginner might make.

Mrs. Finch snarled like a dog, as she walked her way past young Miss Leary, "Miss Leary's not for the kitchen, Em… You 'ave to read to be in the kitchen." She spun around, her brown-silver hair slightly coming off form its bun, "We already 'hav a nanny, a cook, an' a maid—I don' see a reason to get 'nother."

"Mr. Barrie chooses who he needs to choose for staff, Mrs. Finch." Said Mrs. Bailey, as she patiently dumped out the contents of the straw bag.

"You 'onestly think 'e's got anythink to do with this? Pftt!" Mrs. Finch grumbled, as she returned to her hot cauldron, "It's all tha' woman's fault—Mrs. du Maurier—or whatever she's called…Coming inside this 'ouse, like she owns it! God, sometimes I wish she'd died, not 'er daughter!"

"Really, Roberta, that's not very nice…" Mrs. Bailey huffed, as she did not want to be on Mrs. Du Maurier's bad list of people—

But, Roberta Finch didn't care, "An' what does nice 'ave to do with any of this, Em? Mister Barrie doesn't know wha's 'itting 'im! Firs'—'e starts goin' with 'nother family, then 'is wife leaves him for tha'…Mr. Cannan—an' now we've got five children scurrying 'bout the place!"

"Five children? There are only four, my dear!" Mrs. Bailey said, feeling as if she were in an illiterate soup of people.

"I'm includin' Mister Barrie, Em…"

"Of course." Said Mrs. Bailey, as she got out a copper coin pan, "Well, let us not be discontent, dear. I find life much more livable, actually. Mr. Barrie has made money since his play, and I don't complain when more help is given to us. The children aren't that horrible, as I have seen worse, and their nanny takes care of them. And as for Mrs. du Maurier—she's not as bad as all that…"

Mrs. Finch grumbled, hissed, and growled her way back to her stirring, and she buried her pointy face in the cooking pot, very discontentedly. Meanwhile, Miss Leary slowly crept her way up to big Mrs. Bailey, gently came by her side, and, in an almost ghostly sort of way, said—

"Is there anythin' I can do, mum?" Miss Leary said, meekly.

Mrs. Bailey looked at her for a moment, with a slightly blank expression—but soon that went away, and the comfy-sized woman nodded her many-chinned, pink face and smiled, rather pleasantly to young Miss Leary. The woman trotted over to a steaming kettle, turned off the blueberry blue fire, and poured tea into a porcelain teapot.

Mrs. Bailey pointed her sausage-like fingers to the tray, and said, "If you could please take this up to Mr. Barrie, he's in one of his moods…and do please come back for further work, I have plenty for you to do, Miss Leary."

Young Miss Leary picked up the tray and nimbly left the kitchen, and it wasn't until she had properly reached the stairs that she had started to wonder what Mrs. Bailey meant by "he's in one of his moods". She suppressed a small shudder as she quietly climbed the carpeted staircase—She had only seen a glance of Mr. Barrie, when she was being interviewed for the job of household maid, and mostly Mrs. du Maurier had done the talking and interviewing. Mr. Barrie didn't seem much interested in anything except the boys, Jack, George, Micheal, and Peter—all of whom, Miss Leary had seen spying on her during the evening and calling her things like "The captive" and "The prisoner". This confused her very much, but she found that they were harmless.

But besides those rare glimpses of the family, she was mostly concerned on scrubbing things, cooking things, trying to read Mrs. Bailey's lists, and collecting her salary at the end of the week.

Before much more came to her attention, she was at the top of the staircase, and just outside Mr. Barrie's large, dark brown, door—a very forbidding looking door, she had always thought—but, bravely she put the tray on the tiny table next to the man's door, and knocked, rather briskly, on the wooden masterpiece.

"Evening tea, Mr. Barrie," She said, unsure of what his temper might be.

A muffled call came from within the door, and in a thickly voiced Scottish dialect, James Matthew Barrie said: "Come in!"

And, so, Miss Leary did just that.


	2. A Good Boy's Name

Tea Time & Fairy Stories

In reply to… 

**nessie6**: No, not in any fashion will this be a romance. If I had planned for it to be one and wanted to alert the public, I would have given the story the title of 'romance' not 'drama'. No, no, no… I despise romances, on the most part, so no worry there.

**Dawnie-7**—No, Mrs. Bailey is not Miss Leary's mother. The usage of 'mum' in Miss Leary's dialect is merely old-fashioned slag for referring to another female superior to you. It's a bit like saying 'governor' to someone…the person isn't really a governor but is socially superior to you. And thank you for the lovely review, you're very kind to say that about my writing!

**KatrinaKaiba**—Oh, thank you so much! Nice, encouraging words are always great to hear from reviewers.

**StarlitNiphredil**-Thank you so much for your friendly comment on my writing style!

**Writing Muse**- I was so pleased to read your nice review! It really encouraged me, actually, and you're grammar (from what I can see) is fine! I am also glad that I have engaged you into the story! (beams proudly) I enjoy it when readers actually tell me in detail what they like/dislike, enjoy/ anticipate about my stories, and I am much obliged! Thanks, again!

_The_ maid walked into the study, and made doubly sure she made no eye contact with anything except the tea tray and the floor. She had made a point not to stare at anything in the house, the reason being because Mrs. du Maurier had most almost fired her for looking at and picking up the golden mantle piece clock downstairs. She could not blame Mrs. du Maurier, there were many maids who stole from their households—and one must always be watchful, of course.

"If you could put the tray on my desk, tha' would be lovely." Mr. Barrie said, somewhere in the room.

She carefully marched over to the desk covered with scribbles, notebooks, drawings, and other clutter. That desk was one of the areas in the house she was absolutely forbidden to clean, but, quite to her annoyance, it was the most disorganized area in the whole lodging. Miss Leary turned her heels, and was ready to escape.

"You're the new maid, then?"

Miss Leary bent her head up slightly. "That I am, sir."

"Well, welcome, then, I hope Mrs. Finch isn't giving ya hard time in the kitchen?"

"Thank you, sir—No, sir—Mrs. Finch's very kind." She said, still in her soulless, monotone voice.

Mrs. Finch, a kind lady? Well, that's a lie if Mr. Barrie ever heard one, Mrs. Finch was a exceedingly scary woman, and she was absolutely _anything_ but kind. Oh, well that's dishonesty. No one was honest to anyone, and, lately, Mr. Barrie did find himself noticing the abnormalities about a little, pesky thing called propriety. He noticed this vexing and completely omnipresent sprite, demon, devil (call it whatever you wish) more and more —and Sir Barrie hated it.

"I'm glad you're enjoying work, Miss Leary, but is it possible to help me down, please?"

Miss Leary stopped in her tracks, and once again turned around, "'cuse me, sir?"

"Please, Miss Leary, could ya help me down?"

Charlotte Leary lifted her head higher, and her neck creaked, sorely, because of its new position. She looked around the room, searching for the image of Mr. Barrie possibly somewhere near the open window or on top of a chair. But, no, he was—upside down and on top of the bedpost, looking very much like a fallen bird.

The maid put her hands over her mouth, rather shocked.

Mr. Barrie merely waved his hands, dismissively. "I suppose I could do it myself…"

And, then, tucking his legs back and uncoiling himself like a rollie pollie, the man sprang himself out of position and landed, rather regally, on the floor. He straightened himself up like a plank of wood, brushed off some of the dust from the wall, and acted as if he had done the most natural thing in the world.

Approaching the tray, Mr. Barrie said. "Thank ye, Miss Leary."

Miss Leary took her rough hands off her mouth, quickly, as not to offend him. After all, she had heard writers did odd things like this to be "inspired", but in Charlotte's opinion, it was just an _excuse_ for the well off to act childish and eccentric. Mr. Barrie soon read the look on her face, and he readily explained himself:

"Oh, yes, I'm getting a new perspective. A perspective of a bird—I plan to climb up a tree, perhaps later today." He took a sip of tea, "It's for a book I'm beginning to write…I want to call it _Kensington Gardens_."

She tried to smile, but Miss Leary had the most blatant frown on her face. Deeply disturbed, she said, "Oh, I'll leave you then, Mr. Barrie."

"Could ya help me with something first, young lady?" Mr. Barrie said, looking down at some of his ruffled papers.

Miss Leary nodded her head and waited for further instructions, and Mr. Barrie asked the most peculiar question; it took some time before she could digest it.

"Tell me a good lad's name." Sir Barrie said, looking out the window.

"—A good lad's name, sir?" She said, "I don't know many, sir."

"One that's cowardly by night an' stupidly brave by day, give me a boy's name for that."

She was at a complete loss, and was quiet for an eternity. Then finally she broke out of her trance, sniffed worriedly, and suggested one. "Tony?" She whispered not really sure of the suggestion herself.

He nodded, contented with the idea— "Tony…Tony, very good. Thank ye, good bye."

He sat down in his chair and began to feverishly scribble. His hands and pen zipped along the pages like there was no tomorrow and his eyes had the white glaze of a madman. He paid no more attention to her, as he had gone off into his own world, and could no longer see her or anything else in the room, except his new creation 'Tony'—who he was, at an alarming rate, describing to the very fictional hairs on his head.

Miss Leary silently crept out of the room and shut the door, very gently. Charlotte Leary looked down in contemplation, and finally understood what Mrs. Bailey meant by "he's in one of his moods". Writers were not her sort of people, they troubled her deeply; you see, her mind tried to focus on other things, like getting her salary and weather she should spend a halfpenny at holidays. You know, _important_ things like that.

Even as a girl, Miss Leary had never seen much in elves and mermaids. She concerned herself with numbers and digits and pounds and allowances—the things that mattered, you know, the things that kept bread on the table. Fairies and mermaids never put bread on the table…but calculation, work, sweat, and the salary always had.

Reality did most of the work, anyway, while Fantasy seemed to lull about in the parlor, playing cards with itself. Reality put her on a ship and sent her to London. Fantasy was still lulling about in Ireland, twiddling its thumbs and acting like it had nothing better to do. Reality was a good master, she thought.

As soon as Miss Leary entered the kitchen, something very shrill, very bird-like shrieked, "Mr. Barrie! Mr. Bar—_rie_!"

Oh, of course—it was Mrs. Catherine Reid, the boys' nanny. She and all her glory stormed into the house like a winter wind, with the four boys slowly walking afterwards, with ashamed, wilting faces.

"You—Mrs. Finch!" Screamed the nanny, in red-hot anger, "Where is Mr. Barrie? I must speak to the man at once!"

Roberta Finch scrunched her pock-marked face, and her icy blue eyes scanned the boys' faces. Then, gradually, Mrs. Finch yawned, and told Mrs. Reid to go and find Mr. Barrie herself—then the bony woman continued cooking dinner, her trademark scowl chiseled on her face.

Quietly, Micheal said something—

Mrs. Reid spun her heels around, "I don't want a _word_ out of you, boys!" She shook her gloved finger at them, "I have had my fill of your disobedience!"

"Yes, Mrs. Re—" Began one of them, meekly.

"_Not_ a word, Mr. Davies!"

None of the boys made an attempt to apologize this time, and they huddled together in a frightened mass. Mrs. Reid explored deeper into the kitchen and shouted repeatedly for Mrs. Bailey. The nanny's falcon-like eye spotted Miss Leary, and curtly told the maid to take the boys to the living room.

Mrs. Bailey waddled her way in, like a mother duck discovering her eggs being stolen by a fox.

"What is this, Mrs. Reid?" She asked, stopping Miss Leary from taking the boys away.

The nanny barked, "Please, get Mr. Barrie."

Mrs. Bailey shook her head and explained that Mr. Barrie had been most precise in that he was to be left alone to write for the evening. The nanny took no heed of this, and headed for the staircase (which was, in a way, the entrance into Mr. Barrie's world).

But she was pulled back by the swollen, puffy hands of Mrs. Emily Bailey. "But he's writing! Writers need privacy, Mrs. Reid!"

Now, Mrs. Reid's face turned into a horrible shade of crimson, and her eyes flashed, for one moment, a most terrible blood red. She hissed, like an angry cat, "I do not _care_, Mrs. Bailey, if he is the Grand Puba of the Royal Indian Court—I will see him now!"

The voice started everyone, "An' I'm here, Mrs. Reid. What's happened?" Ah, yes, there he stood like a spirit appearing out of the blue. He looked perfectly collected; his hands behind his back and his face as pleasant as spring. Everyone blinked many times, they could have sworn they had not heard him approach.

Mrs. Reid pushed this phenomenon aside and got to the soft throat of the matter—

"_Well_," The nanny huffed, pulling herself up to her maximum height, "They've been nothing but trouble all afternoon! First with Micheal throwing rocks at the Round Pond, then Jack hiding from me! The worst," Mrs. Reid lowered her voice, "Peter told me—right to my face, Mr. Barrie—to _shut up_!"

"He said tha' to ya, Mrs. Reid?" James Barrie breathed, rather shocked with this information. Whenever he was _really_ shocked, his Scottish dialect seemed to get the better of him.

"He did!"

James Barrie turned his gaze over to Peter, who quickly averted his eyes and rested them on his shoes.

Mr. Barrie frowned and nodded to Mrs. Reid, "I think we might need to discuss this, Mrs. Reid. You, Peter, an' me—"

"I _think_ we do!" She snorted.

It was then decreed that the boys (except for Peter) would be banished to their room in disgrace. Peter, who had been the naughtiest, was to receive the full-blown wrath of the grown ups, which was never more than a scolding and a thwack on the hand.

The living room doors were closed to conceal the conversation. But maids had ways of listening. In a way, they held all the cards—for they knew almost every detail, thread, and stain in these people's lives. But, Charlotte Leary refrained from such activities, as she secretly thought "listening in" was traitorous.

James Barrie's voice softly reprimanded, "Now, Peter, apologize to Mrs. Reid…."

Peter's solemn tone mumbled, "I won't."

Mr. Barrie coughed, worriedly, "Peter, apologize to Mrs. Reid."

"No." The boy almost shouted, "She deserved what I said."

Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Finch chuckled to herself and muttered something to Mrs. Bailey, who snorted knowingly. Mrs. Leary tired to concentrate on the dishes, but the lure of the conversation gradually seduced her. Soon, all three maids were huddled near the living room door and intently listening.

The boy, his voice filled with struggle and wet tears, said something about hating Mrs. Reid. "Mother never bothered with nannies! I can see why! I _hate _them!" Peter said, despairingly.

There was more ruckus and quarrel, and one might have thought it was Parliament House on a debate day. Mrs. Reid voice and argument was the strongest, leaving Mr. Barrie and Peter rather washed out. Peter was then told to leave and go upstairs, with the knowledge that he would not receive dinner tonight.

The women ran away from the door, and began idly dusting things here and there—whistling and humming, innocently, as Peter walked past them. When the child's footsteps silenced and the upstairs nursery door slammed shut, the maids eagerly resumed their posts.

Mr. Barrie was now talking, rather crestfallenly about how Mrs. Reid shouldn't be so hard on the boy, after his own mother's death, and he reassured the nanny that Peter had probably not known what he was saying. Though this was all lies! Alas, Mr. Barrie believed whole heartedly that Mrs. Reid absolutely needed to be told to shut up, and the only thing restringing the man from reliving the nanny of her duties, was Mrs. du Maurier, who would have disagreed. Children, you see, can smell a bad woman from a mile away—and Mrs. Reid was the Queen of Bad Women.

"The mother is only two months dead, Mrs. Barrie!" The nanny growled, "The boy must _still_ be in morning. I never thought it was healthy to let them play. They need to stay inside…and reflect on her life."

"Fresh air will help—"

"Fresh air does nothing to change the circumstances, Mr. Barrie."

"Of course," Mr. Barrie said, tiredly. "Of course…yes…"

"The only outing proper for these boys is going to church," Mrs. Reid said, reprimandingly. "To meditate on their mother's tragic passing. Mrs. du Maurier has been attending church every day, since her daughter's death. The boys should follow her good example."

Mrs. Reid's words weighed heavy on his chest, as Mr. Barrie nodded his head.

"A visit to a graveyard might help them, too," Mrs. Reid said, darkly, "All children need graveyards, Mr. Barrie. It reminds them of their mortality, and it sobers their spirits."

Mr. Barrie frowned and his soul went up in a fire. Sober spirits? Children needed spirits drunk with happiness, love, and heartlessness—not sobriety and all the dastardly things that adulthood entailed. Children need the world to be drained out with fairy tales and pretend!

"Certainly not!" Mr. Barrie protested, rather upset.

"Mrs. du Maurier will think differently," Was all Mrs. Reid said, as she left the room. When she opened the doors, the force of the door hit the maids' faces. They scurried away, like terrified mice.

Graveyards were perfect places for children, after all, it's only a kind of park with dead people under the soil.


	3. Graveyard Visits

_As_ it turned out, Mrs. du Maurier did think differently about graveyards. Emma du Maurier's prim, puckery old face contorted into an elegant countenance of approval, and, ye_s_, soon the boys were told that they were to visit church each day and tour the city graveyard, under her supervision.

Mr. Barrie fought for the boys not to go. He pleaded in the cleverest ways to their grandmother…but she has a heart of resolute stone, and no frivolous little wisp of complaint will ever make it crumble. Her boys were going to the graveyard; and that was the end of the matter.

The nanny gave James a look, but when she turned, Sir Barrie stuck his tongue out at her, greatly annoyed. Like Peter, Mr. Barrie was beginning to hate nannies… James whistled for his dog, hoping its jolly presence would cheer the boys' spirits. The floor trembled, and the great galloping paws of Porthos came crashing into the dining room.

Emma du Maurier delicately frowned, "Mr. Barrie, having your dog at the table is hardly a good example for my boys—Please, take that dog outside, Miss Leary."

James Barrie got out of his seat, calmly, "Don't do tha', Miss Leary, I think I can manage." He gave a disdainful look to Mrs. du Maurier, as he took Porthos away from the dinner table and went upstairs. Sir Barrie shut his bedroom door with a bang, and stayed up in his room for the night's duration.

Everything was as tense as raw muscle that evening, and it came to Miss Leary noticed that the children hadn't even touched their dinner.

* * *

"Come along, boys," Came the strict voice of Emma du Maurier, "It is time for church! Up! Up! All of you! Up to church!"

"Why so early, Grandmama?" Squeaked little Micheal, struggling under his blankets.

With the help of Mrs. Reid, the boys were smacked, pushed, and shuffled off into their black clothes and then, like slaves being sold to market, where told to walk out in a single line formation.

Mr. Barrie watched all this, defeatedly, from a crack of opened door.

James wished them all a warm good bye, but this did little good; so, with downcast faces, the boys departed to church. Mr. Barrie watched them trod down the street from his bedroom window, silently cursed Mrs. Reid, then retired to his creaky desk and forced himself to write.

Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Bailey was starting to develop a cold, but it wasn't until the next day was it discovered she had a very _bad_ cold, which, like most colds, spread contagiously. Soon, all the maids had caught it and were sneezing, coughing, and sputtering about the house. Well, as you can imagine, when the maids were cooking food, their sickness splattered all over the carrots, peas, and mash—and, therefore, Mrs. du Maurier and Mrs. Reid were soon very infected.

All the household males had been spared of this mild disease (mainly because they, out of indignation, never touched food lately), but it had somehow been installed in Michael's imagination that the women would die, much like his mother had. It took a good deal of Miss Leary's consoling to convince him that they would not die.

Now, this caused a bit of a dilemma, the nanny and the grandmother were both very sick (therefore, no graveyard visits could be made)—Catherine Reid was making such an unreasonable fuss about it, too, which wasn't helping things. The dilemma became direr, when Mr. Barrie received a letter, calling him away to Mr. Frohman's office.

Of course, this pleased the boys, and though they tried, they couldn't stop smiling. At last! Something had hindered their wicked nanny's plans! Thinking that the adults would certainly forget them, they all nudged each other and quietly began to sneak up to their nursery.

Oh, dear…Well, Mrs. Reid soon spotted the boys taking their leave, and she gave them such a scolding… hissing, shouting, threatening, … you'd wonder if she was the devil incarnate. The boys all shook in their boots, and politely took the insults.

After some debate between Catherine Reid and Emma du Maurier, Miss Leary was chosen. The young lady had only a small cold, and, judging from her patience with Micheal, the young lady was the most reasonable candidate for taking the boys to the church graveyard. And, so it was.

* * *

"But _why_ must we go for a walk with Charlotte?" Asked Peter, slamming the garden gate.

"Sh!" Said George, "She'll hear you, Peter! Besides, I think she's a nice lady—she's done nothing bad."

"That's only because you fancy her," Snapped Peter, giving George the evil eye.

"That's not true!" George protested, his face reddening with embarrassment.

Peter laughed, harshly, and crushed a glittering garden snail under his polished shoe. He hated stupid brothers and he hated nannies and he hated, hated, _hated_ walks to the graveyard. Sometimes he felt so angry and so hateful, his very blood begin to boil and bubble around inside him. Mother used to cool his blood…

"_Must _we walk, Charlotte?" Asked Jack, who looked rather sluggish.

"I'm only doin' my duty." Charlotte said, very sadly, "It's no pleasure to me…"

Peter demanded, "Then why do you go?"

"…'cause yer grandma's sick, Master Peter, an' Mr. Barrie's been called away—" She said, sullenly, "It's no choice of mine…"

The gang of children followed Miss Leary out into the London streets. The day was foggy and cold, the sky laden with rain—just the type of day for visiting a graveyard. The wind moaned and screamed down the cobbled road between the caverns of tall London apartments. The black clouds brewed and swirled in the dismal heavens…it was as if the whole world was in mourning for Sylvia.

The graveyard was an iron-fenced patch of land, in the east part of town, and it was littered with tombstones, memorial flowers, and ivy-covered crypts. It had ghastly types of trees; the naked kind that looked like they'd fancy to grab out and eat you.

According to Mrs. Reid, the boys were to stand in front of their mother's grave and mourn. They were not to talk, or else they would be smacked. The boys could, if they wished, walk around the cemetery and mourn for others, too—but this could only be done after the first half-hour.

The boys circled around their mother's gave and were totally silent. Her tombstone was a shimmering clean marble, and the dirt covering her coffin looked fresh. The soft soil was laced with sapphire forget-me-nots, which had been her favorite flower…The grave was still and peaceful, and each of the boys could almost swear they felt their mother's hand slip into theirs.

Micheal started crying—Jack started crying, then George, and then, finally, Peter.

Miss Leary grew impatient with this, as her cold was gradually starting to worsen. Muffledly, she told the boys to go about the graveyard, mourn accordingly, and return at the graveyard gate in an hour. They soon obliged and left.

* * *

Well, an hour had gone by and Miss Leary was at the gate, ready to leave. No boys. Charlotte Leary folded her arms, and waited another twenty minutes. No boys. The maid tapped her foot on the soil and waited yet another twenty minutes. Still, no boys.

Realizing the seriousness of this, she immediately felt alone and horrified. What was she to do? She would surely be fired if anything happened to those boys! Biting her lip, the maid decided to leave the gate, and search for them. The graveyard was not so awfully big, so there was hope of finding them soon. Miss Leary decided it was wise to employ the assistance of the groundkeeper, for extra assistance, as she didn't like the idea of roaming about a graveyard.

She spotted a dirty, ill-kept looking man bending over one of the graves, and he maid presumed that he must be the groundskeeper. He was patting some brown soil with his shovel, and looked very much like that ugly minion from Dracula, except he was younger and not hunched-backed. Hurriedly, she walked over to the soil-caked young man.

"Sir," Charlotte said, her voice as hard as flint, "'cuse me, please, but I've lost my charges. 'ave you seen them? I must get to them soon, sir—"

The young man looked up, and his face was splotched with dried dirt. "Umm…I did, yeah—"

"Could ya show me where they are?"

"'Course I could…" He said, trying to be polite, "Come along, then."

The two of them searched that grove thoroughly, but no more than a few small footprints could be found in the slushy mud. The boy's footprints led out into a wild, vegetated part of the graveyard. The young man breathed, in a lush Irish accent, "Well, now…They'd be tha wors' charges I've ever come across, miss. Mus' be horrible chasing after them this tis!"

"Ah, well—" Charlotte began, then stopped, and looked at him questioningly.

He smiled, "You're Irish, then, are ya?"

Charlotte happily nodded her head. It was wonderful to have someone of her native Ireland talking to her! It was like breathing in the first real breath of air, since she got off that ship and entered the grey, electrical, and steamy world of London.

"Ah," He grinned, very pleased, "I'm, too. Pleasure ta meet one of me own!"

Miss Leary introduced herself, eager to know a fellow Irishman. Embarrassedly, the maid explained how she had lost the boys, and the man had returned the interest and introduced himself as Bill Lawley. But he explained to Miss Leary, that he was not the groundskeeper.

She frowned, direly confused, "Then wha' do you do?"

"I dig graves…"

"Hmm?"

"I'm a gravedigger."

She looked at him, took a step backwards, but smiled politely nonetheless, and so, with pleasant acquaintances made, Mr. Lawley and Miss Leary continued looking for the lost boys.

* * *

"Look, Jack!" Chirped Micheal, excitedly, "Look! Look!"

"Oh, it's the caravans!" Cried Jack from the gates.

"Aye, and you'd stay away from them, if I were you, little lad." Said a dusty, warm voice from behind them. "Gypsies curse little boys! Turn ya into fogs, toads, cats, an' any other kind o' beastly thing"

All four boys turned around, looking very surprised by the unfamiliar voice. The source of the voice was a young man, and next to this peculiar spectacle was Charlotte Leary, who looked murderously displeased with them.

"Well, then," Bill Lawley sighed, "There ya 'ave it, Miss Leary. The los' boys are found!"

Charlotte thanked him, as she gave the boys a look. The boys weren't paying much attention to her, though; They all peered out of the bleak graveyard gates and gawked at the gypsies moving down the street. Large, splintery caravans carried dirty families of dark-faced Hungarian-Russian mobs.

Bill spat to the ground, repulsed by the very sight of them. "Filthy beggars. Look at 'em," Mr. Lawley said.

Peter looked at the gravedigger, suspiciously, "Who are you?"

"Bill."

"Are you a chimney sweep?" Peter asked, looking at his old clothes.

"I'm a gravedigger…"

A loud, respectful "Ooooo!" came from the boys, in a chorus. They somehow lost their interest in the gypsies and crowded up to Mr. Bill Lawley and Miss Leary.

* * *

The day had been a tiring one. Mr. Barrie's joints were stiff from sitting down, listening to Charles ramble on about money, success, work, new actors, new authors, business, and other senseless nonsense. You see, James did appreciate Charles as his friend and best financial banker, but he hated him when Charles started talking about debts and stockmarkets—because James could never shut the man up about it.

Besides, Mr. Barrie had had his heart set on climbing a tree today. And James could not think of much more than feathers, birds, and nests—instead of pennyworths, bank notes, and publishers.

Sir Barrie felt in his tweed pocket the letter he received in the post. He had told himself to open it numerous times today, but he could never quite do it. It was from Mary…Oh, how he wished she had just forgotten about him and left him alone. Wasn't she happy with Gilbert Cannon? Why was she doing this?

Yes, he accepted that Mary had left, and he was glad she was happier where she was—but why did she have to remind him with letters? Solemnly, he tore the letter open and read it. After finishing it, he crumpled it up and threw it away. It was all nonsense…telling him about her time in France, her new cat, and Gilbert. James Barrie frustratedly kicked a stray piece of coal, and it skidded along the cobblestones, leaving a trial of soot along the pavement.

He wished Sylvia could be alive, to make things right again. Sylvia had been a person who hadn't been suspicious of him and his intentions. James had always been a man who loved things too much, and she understood that. She was not jaded by the world, but instead hopefully raised her eyes to the sky…Beloveds are always taken away—but, then again, the world had never been the proper place for pure souls like hers.

He kicked the coal rock again and it skipped along the street, until it landed right behind a group of children. James squinted his eyes, and walked faster—those were his boys!

"Hello!" He said, catching them.

Their faces lit up and the boys simultaneously cried "Uncle Jim!" as they left the guidance of Miss Leary and flocked around him.

"How was the graveyard, then, Peter?" Mr. Barrie asked.

James was smiling at him, but Peter wasn't smiling back, "Horrible, as usual." Peter eventually mumbled.

"But," Jack piped in, enthusiastically, "We met a gravedigger, a real one!"

George nodded and smiled, contentedly, "It was amazing, and he's such a nice fellow."

"His name's Bill, Uncle Jim," Micheal explained, clinging onto Mr. Barrie's sleeve, "He's very dirty but he's very clever. Bill told us how to look for vampires and ghouls and bad fairies…" The little boy paused, as if in very deep contemplation, "I…I have had a _realiz-ion_…"

Mr. Barrie looked down at Micheal, "You have, young man?"

"Yes," Micheal said, importantly, "I want to grow up to be a gravedigger."

"An' I firmly encourage the notion!" James Barrie said, proudly, as he picked the little boy up and carried him on his shoulders.


	4. A Dead Mother

Dead Mothers

_Notes: _

**Cathy**_— **On the** **most part**, I don't enjoy love stories…but, when they're done well, I don't mind them. Just look at Romeo and Juliet, how could anyone not love such a classic? But—I disagree love is the most powerful emotion that we have, personally. Hate and pride are equally powerful emotions, in my opinion. Bill and Charlotte might have something planned for them, you never know, but I can tell you definitely that there will be no romance for our beloved JM Barrie. Actually, JM Barrie will find another kind of love, in upcoming chapters, but that shall be for me to know and you to find out. _

**Dawnie-7**— _Yes, poor boys. They can't seem to escape the wrath of their nanny…Church and the graveyards everyday is simply cruel and unusual torture, my dear! _

**Chef13**— _Yep, my first drafts of chapters can be extremely hard to understand. So bad, sometimes I even re-do them, like I did with Chapter 2. Thank you for saying I kept Mr. Barrie in character…and I am marvelously thrilled that you also identify with him, as a writer. I must admit I took some of myself, and put that into JM Barrie's writing style. I go bonkers about what to name a character—no, seriously, it really does take me hours on end to find a good name. And I also have the memory of a fruit fly, so if I have an idea for a story, I have to write it down quickly before it slips out and I can't remember it. I suppose great minds think alike :)_

**PirateWench5309**—_Many thanks for your encouraging words!_

**Starlit Niphredil**—_James is_ _a darling, isn't he? Thank you for calling that moment in the story hilarious…I thought that was just the kind of thing Mr. Barrie might do. Poor Miss Leary, having to see a grown man in such a position :) And, yes, matters have not ended between Peter and Mrs. Reid, I am sorry to say. The power struggle between the two continues. _

**Tweetypie987**—_Thank you for your lovely review! It cheered me up quite a bit. Oh, and I believe chapter two and three (and now, four) are up now, if you wish to continue reading my story. _

_

* * *

_

"Amen…" said the Priest, lifting his hand up towards the high ceiling of the church, "Go with the Lord…"

"Amen," Responded the congregation.

Little Peter stared up to the stained glass windows, the ones with the ice-white angels and the shimmering gold cross, which was entwined with glassy razor thorns and bloody roses. The pretty morning light burst through of the rainbow glass, and it poured a glorious dye over all the orchids, furniture, ladies, gentlemen, and children in the church. The lady with the puffy, feathery hat turned purple; the old gentleman with the cherry cane turned green; the lovely little girl with the china doll turned dark blue; and the whole congregation turned different and vibrantly amazing shades of colors.

Little Peter moved his tiny toes around in his stiff leathery boots, and he scratched his arms and neck—How he loathed Sunday clothes. So tight, so itchy…they were, in young Mr. Davies mind, the worst set of attire he possessed. His cotton collar was hard like lead against his throat, the big buttons that traveled from his waist to his neck were an ugly shade of bluebird, the boot's laces wouldn't tie when he tied them, the jacket and vest were made out of scratchy knitting which sent an uncomfortable tickle up his boyish spine, and his pearly tie was always adjusted too firmly, so he would feel himself being choked, much like a hang-man. He dreamt of, on some great and fantastic day, when he was quite the Man, to burn them in the nursery fireplace.

Now, the boy felt his conscience get the better of him. _Am I_, he thought, _so selfish as to think of my stupid, stupid clothes instead of Mother? _He felt a million pin-pricks dip into him, almost like ravenous birds pecking at his flesh, and that the feeling boys generally get when their conscience is instructing them to be ashamed and depressed with themselves.

"Peter," George tenderly said, whilst tapping Peter's shoulder, "Peter, come along, Peter…We'd better get up and stop daydreaming, now…"

"Right... Sorry, George." Peter said, while thrusting himself off the cushioned seat.

George had a heavy thing in his eyes, a timeless pity, something only brothers can have, when they feel their hearts dry up like prunes out of concern for siblings. George wanted ever so much to be like his father—a man who was only a wispy, echoing ghost in the corridors of his memory—George would have fast bursts of remembrances of him, scenes in his head that zoomed by so quickly that he'd hardly grasped what they were about. Notwithstanding, George always knew in his heart that his father had been a brave, respectable, noble, and kind-spirited Englishman, who'd never failed to encourage his sons or his wife. So, his dead Father was his role model in all things.

"You seem sad." George whispered, resting his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"That's because I am." Peter shot George a black look.

George retreated his hand away, and breathed out an uneven sigh, "I know you miss Mother dearly. And, so do I, Peter. But—but, she isn't alone, because she has Father to nurture her now…So we mustn't feel solemn. Mother never _meant _to leave us here by ourselves…"

"I know that." Peter grumbled, walking faster to get away. "Don't talk to me like I don't understand, George."

George stopped walking and stood still for a moment, as it dawned upon him that he'd just insulted Peter by talking to him like a child. George hissed angrily, internally scolding himself for being careless in not remembering that his younger brother hated that.

He then sped up next to his brother again, "Peter," said he, "I know you understand. I know you're not a stupid boy, but I only want you to know that you can talk to me, any time…"

Peter turned slightly, and looked rather pale, "I'm fine, George."

"I don't think you are." George persisted, "You have every reason not to be, I understand... But you shouldn't bottle your thoughts up, before they become too much for you to handle, Peter." The elder brother paused, as they both walked out of the Church together, "We don't have Mother or Father anymore…and we're lucky to have Uncle Jim and Grandmama for us, but we mustn't rely on them all the time. We brothers have to keep our heads up together."

Peter looked up at his brother and gave him a sincere nod. It frightened Peter to think that a mere going back should even be possible. For such fate would seem to be the worst of all, to reach a time when all his love and loyalty to his mother should become a charming episode—like a nice picnic, that fleetingly sweetened his life and then returned him to be normal, unaltered.

But…Something secret passed between them, a few glitters from their eyes, a few sniffs, a few gentle nods of the head—these were all secret understandings between the two.

"We should go and see Mother, now, I suppose." Peter said, glancing down the crowded stone steps of the Church, down to where Mr. Barrie, Grandmama Emma, Mrs. Reid, Jack, and Micheal were.

George Llewelyn-Davies smiled slightly, nodded his head, and began to trot down the stone stairs, tunneling his way around the wilderness of churchgoers. Peter soon trailed behind him…And he lagged behind the group, as they walked towards his mother's gravesite.

Peter closed his eyes, letting the air caress his face and brush against his Sunday suit. It was almost like the Wind was dusting it out—like his mother had done once. Perhaps the wind was his mother's ghost swiping off the grains of fluff off his slim shoulders…Perhaps, perhaps, oh…How Peter wished that was true. But the wind was dead and gone, just like the ghosts; it was something you could feel come against you and pet you, but you could never return the favor.

Peter, with his eyes still gently shut, stretched out his hand and imagined that he grabbed the Wind's tail, like he would the tail of a kite. For a moment, he pretended that the wind picked him up, cradled him in its wings, flew him high up to the clouds, and then slipped him into the open arms of his mother, who lived up there now... He had almost forgotten how much she smelled of lavender—how soft and comfy it was to hold onto her, and how secure he began to feel when he saw the patient reassurance of her smile. Then, Peter realized something important, and it was this…Not only did Mothers brush the dust off Little Boys' shoulders, but they also brushed the dust out of Little Boys' hearts.

"Young man…" Said a voice—which was not his mother's—"Young Mr. Davies! Do conclude whatever it is that you are doing. Young man! Young man! Young man!"

Peter's eyes shot open, and he immediately had to wipe them with his small tie. The sunlight stung his eyes, and he felt as if he had just fallen asleep to a nightmare. The churchyard, the graveyard, the people, the brothers, the girls, the boys, the carriages, the buildings; these were the things that weren't real. These things were the stuff of nightmares, the stuff of pirates, the stuff of devils and ghouls. The Never-Never Lands were real. They were they only real things left.

_I must keep believing so,_ Peter thought, a war raging inside his little spirit. _Please, Peter! Please, please, keep believing like Uncle Jim says; otherwise you'll never see Mother. You don't want to lose her even more, and you know that. Believe. Believe. Believe. Believe. Just believe, like Uncle Jim said. Just believe. Just believe. Just believe. _

"Please, don't waste time, Mr. Davies!" Said Mrs. Reid, who was, today, more fierce than usual, "Quicken your step!"

Peter did quicken, caught up to his brothers, and said to George, "Oh, how I _hate_ our nanny…"

"I know." George said, "I'm starting to wish school would begin, just so I can escape her…"

"Why doesn't Uncle Jim stop it?"

"It won't be long before he fires her." George mumbled, not too sure of what he said himself.

"I don't think he ever will. He is too frightened of her, I think."

"I don't know," George said, "but I don't think so. He's not afraid; Uncle Jim's too good for that, in my opinion. He's just patient with her."

A hush fell upon the boys as they approached the tombstone that read the chiseled engraving: 'Sylvia Llewelyn-Davies'.

Peter switched his gaze down to the grave, and stared until the jelly of his eyes began to dry. He blinked, once, but quickly opened them again. He could've stared at his Mother's grave for all his life; growing up from a little boy to a youth to a gentleman to an old man and then dissolving into a mere skeleton, just staring down to her.

Why does she have to die? She was supposed to live forever, just like he had planned.

A hand rested, daintily, on Peter's shoulder. He expected it to be Uncle Jim— but, really, it was Mrs. Reid's gloved hand. Instantly, Peter had a mind to pull away from her—but the boy thought better of it, since he wasn't keen on getting in trouble with her again. At least, not now. At least, not in front of Mother.

Mrs. Reid proclaimed, in a godly type of voice, "May God grant you the serenity to accept the things you cannot change, courage to change those things you can—and wisdom to know the difference."

The boys' heads hung sadly towards their mother's sunken grave. Mrs. Emma du Maurier dabbed her wet eyes with her lacy handkerchief, but, besides that, she kept her general mien quite even, as was her usual standard of behavior. Inside herself, Mrs. du Maurier could feel something ripping apart, like cobwebs or thin paper—she had always expected her little Sylvia to see her die first. Mothers shouldn't see their own children die before them, and children shouldn't see their own mothers die before them—why, wouldn't it be proper just for no one to die at all?

James Barrie offered Mrs. du Maurier his dry handkerchief, as hers, he had noticed, had gone rather wet and soggy now. Mr. Barrie had a concerned pout on his lips, as he disliked how painful these visits were for his boys, and for Sylvia's mother. He himself, felt a great loss over Sylvia's death—but nothing could compare to the suffering of this family. A mother (and a daughter) had been cut out of their lives, and a mother (or a daughter) is never completely replaced.

James had only lost a dear friend, a close and understanding friend—his pain for the loss of a friend, was _nothing _compared to theirs

Micheal had forget-me-nots for his mother. The little lad placed them at the tombstone's head, and quickly backed away.

There was a sad and lonely moment. But this lasted only for a split second. There was a cheery laugh, and the boys spun around, as they recognized it instantly—It was like wedding bells, you could never miss them, and you could never not be cheered by them. That was Mr. Lawley's laugh, unmistakably. Big, bubbly, and as blasting as a war cannon, it echoed throughout the shadowy glens and lonely, forgotten tombs of the graveyard.

"Good evening, gentlemen!"

The boys replied, a little weakly, as their dead mother had sobered them, "Hello, Bill! Hello!"

Mrs. du Maurier glared at the dirty newcomer, and she sneered out, "Have you no respect for the dead? Please, young man! How dare you… _shout_ at mourners like cattle?"

Bill looked surprised, yet he bowed respectfully, nonetheless, "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am—I were jus' paying a friendly 'hello'."

Mrs. du Maurier felt greatly insulted by this young man's presence. He was unfamiliar. He was dirty and low-bred. He seemed poorly educated, perhaps even, a complete neglect education all together. With these first impressions, the Grandmother immediately concluded that this vulgar person was not a fit role model for her grandchildren.

"Who is this young man, Mr. Barrie?" Mrs. du Maurier asked, sharply.

"I don' know in the slightest." Barrie replied.

Mrs. du Maurier gracefully, yet with a tint of snobbery, inquired, "Who are you, Mr.—?"

"Mr. Lawley, but ta more aquatinted persons, I'm Bill." Her stretched out his grimy, leather-stiff hands, naively expecting her to shake with them—but she'd never soil her gentle, delicate white gloves, and never shake someone's hand, especially not a man's hand. Especially not _that_ man's hand, for goodness sakes! It was neither natural nor proper for a lady!

This young man was more idiotic than he looked.

She winced away, as if his hand was a venomous spider. "And what is your business here, with my children?"

Mr. Lawley smiled, wiping some of the sweaty dirt off his arms, "Only ta say 'hello'. No more than that, ta be very 'onest. Well… since I've said 'ello an' all such business… then I'll go." He grinned, once more, "Bye, then, gentlemen!"

James Barrie suddenly realized something that made him almost jump out of his skin with delight. He walked towards the young man, implored him to stay a moment, and said: "Are you tha gravedigger I've been hearing of?"

"Mos' probably, sir." Bill Lawley answered, glancing at the boys, and looking nervously at Mr. Barrie.

"Wha' a complete privilege, Mr. Lawley!" Eagerly, Mr. Barrie shook his hand, "Do let me introduce myself an' my company, I am James Barrie—this fine lady is Mrs. Emma du Maurier—an' that's Catherine Reid…An' I see you've already met my boys."

"Hello, sir." Mr. Lawley said, pleasantly, "I've already met them, yeah."

"You've really inspired my Micheal—he's tha' wee little lad over there—I've heard so, _so_ many fantastical things about ye, my young Mr. Lawley. My boys hold ye in great honor, ya know…"

"Really, sir?"

"Yes, really." Mr. Barrie said, "They've told me much abou' you, since their last trip visitin' their mother."

Bill Lawley frowned, a little confused, but then he saw the tombstone—then he understood.

The gravedigger whispered something and leaned down to the earth, fondly admired the lady's neatly cut tombstone, and petted the soil, as if he were petting an animal, "This is yer Ma, then?"

The boys nodded their heads.

Mr. Lawley shook his head, as he observed the boys—they were only children, and yet they had lost their Mother. Mothers were always supposed to die old, sitting by the fire or having a peaceful dream in their quilted bed. Not young; never young…And not with little children being left behind without her. Yet, Bill had known other boys who had dead mothers. The Angel of Death was blind, and she took mercy on no one, and that is the way things are.

Although Bill pitied them, he couldn't quite relate to their plight, for he never had _dead_ parents. Both of his were filled to the absolute brim with life and, seemingly, immortal energy—sturdy as rocks, they never seemed to go down with fever. Now, he saw them rarely, as he was, by their standards, a _man_, and a _man_ who needed to work hard for whatever he could earn—and, as a _man_, he was not supposed to be given any encouragement. It was cruel to him, to be so tenderly loved and wooed, and then kicked out, told to be manly, and earn bread for the worthy family table. Bill put up with it, with a painful smile…

He had known well the fresh smell of dirt, grave's wrinkled roses, smooth tombstones, and the ivory taint of a corpse's skin... since he took up the job of gravedigging. Such eerie wonders had cultivated a beautiful imagination. Never-Never Land— Mr. Lawley had been there, many a time, in the freeze of a black night, or in the middle of a misty morning among the Graveyard Gates.

"I'm sorry, boys." Mr. Lawley concluded, looking up at them.

"It's not your fault, Bill." Said little Micheal. That was the first thing he said all evening.

"Oh, no…I meant I were sorry for 'er dyin', Micheal." The gravedigger explained, soberly. "It's awful."

The boys all bobbed their heads up and down, agreeing.

James Barrie watched this, and was touched. He came up to the crouching gravedigger, "Will you come over ta our house for lunch, Mr. Lawley? I would enjoy it very much…only, that is, if you can make it. I do realize you work on a schedule."

Mrs. du Maurier and Mrs. Reid both had terrifying scowls on their faces, as the watched the interaction between these two. In contrast, all the boys, except Peter, had glowingly cheerful faces. They all, except the ever-sullen Peter, would love having Bill join them for lunch.

"—_Really_, we must be on our way, don't you agree with me, Mr. Barrie?" Said the Nanny, adjusting her navy blue hat with the cardinal feather laced into the ribbon.

"Alright," Agreed Mr. Barrie, "Jus' let me see if Mr. Lawley'll come with us, my dear woman."

"Are you _quite _serious, Mr. Barrie?" The nanny hissed.

"Of course."

Mrs. Reid looked scandalized—Notwithstanding, the boys and Mr. Barrie persisted.

"Miss Leary will be there, Bill," Jack put in, saucily, with a nudge to George.

Mr. Lawley cleared his throat, "Well, it seems I 'ave no choice, do I? Right, then, gentlemen. I'll come for lunch. I 'ave to put away a few bits o' equipment, but, besides tha'—In 'alf an hour, I've got me lunch."

"Half an hour till your lunch?" Stated Micheal, "That's a long time!"

"No, it's not." Peter corrected. He had a much clearer idea on time. "Not really."

"Bill wouldn't know which flat we live in, so, I suppose, we'll just have to wait for him to finish his shift." Explained George.

Now, Mrs. du Maurier and the Nanny would have none of this. They both insisted that the whole arrangement be called off, and that Mr. Lawley come another time.

This dampened the boys' spirits considerably, but Mr. Barrie then offered to remain at the graveyard, while the rest went back home. So, when Mr. Lawley's shift was finished, he and James would continue down to the house to join them for lunch. All was right with the world, once again…

Mr. Barrie smiled, contentedly, "Well, there we _go_, then! All problems solved."

"I do not think you should—" Began Mrs. du Maurier, but was cut off.

"Don't worry yerself, Mrs. du Maurier. I feel rather strongly tha' I'll get some golden material for my writing, when I wait fer Mr. Lawley." He breathed in the air, smoothly, "This graveyard's thriving with inspiration, don't ye think so? It must be all tha primeval architecture, I don't know for sure, but I'm definitely feeling rather… creative."

"Very well," Emma sighed, tiredly. The grandmother gave a sharp eye to her boys, "We shall be waiting for you back at home…Children, come along with me! We mustn't leave the lunch Mrs. Bailey made us become too cold."


	5. Scritch, Scratch

**Cathy**—'_The Little White Bird' was an idea I was turning over in my head about the story line, but then I saw that 'Tea Time & Fairy Stories' is much more befitting. The 'Little Bird' was like a…trial title…nothing big :) Hehe. Sorry about the nanny (Catherine being both of your first names), but, don't worry, Mrs. Reid will be replaced with another Nanny soon enough. Just wait around and see. Bill and Charlotte…tee-hee…, my little soon-to-be lovebirds…and I am glad you understand why I want to keep Barrie away from all of that. You've always been loyal and honest, and are truly one of my best reviewers (and you are also a phenomenal writer, from what I have read so far in "The Little Princess", and I hope to read more of it during the summer). Enjoy this chapter, m'dear! (P.S. I'm not really sure what you were talking about in your last review…possibly you could explain?)_ **Freak of nature**—_Haha…simple yet to the point, no? _**Lothlim001**—_ I felt warm myself when you compared the story to piping-hot cup of tea. I, being in a fairly traditional European family, really do enjoy a well-prepared cup! Especially Earl Grey, that is my favorite, and green tea. But my relatives say green tea isn't "real" tea…hehe, weird little relatives!) I am glad you enjoy my story, and I hope you continue reading my' warming' story. You are too kind. _**Meredith A. Jones**—_I really have to credit you for inspiring me to continue writing this story. Your writing have been so true to the movie, and so true to the characters, and it has helped me revive my lost enthusiasm in my own stories. You are a truly promising and inspirational writer! _**H.M. Chandler**—_I am always glad to see that I am doing well—or well enough, that is. Thank you. _

To all the others, I love you and appreciate you very, very much

* * *

_James_ glanced at the pocket watch, snapped it shut, and sighed for what seemed to be the hundredth time that morning. _Tick-Tick_…_Tick-Tick_…The tick-tocking of the grandfather clock could be heard all over the office, like a slow heartbeat. Time never flies when you're at the desk of Charles Frohman; no, rather, Time becomes as snail-slow and just about as capable of flying as a rock. 

And, worst of all for Mr. Barrie, that tree still hadn't been climbed.

James felt his brows dripping into a thoughtful frown. 'I really should get 'round to climbing that tree', he mused to himself. In fact—according to the eminently practical Charles Frohman—Mr. Barrie should've gotten around to doing many things by now. Mr. Frohman was pestering for a script, a manuscript, a circus act…well, no, not really a circus act, but Charles certainly was of an impatient temper, and he wanted _something_ and he wanted _something_ fast.

But all James thought of were the tree branches rustling outside the office window, happily swinging to and fro with the wind, mocking all the somber working men inside. James Barrie wished that he could be a branch, rather than listen to his friend jabber on about grim finances. Ah, to sway back and forth with the wind, and not to know the first thing about production budgets…!

"Hang in here, James, I know this is boring—"

"'Cuse me?"

Charles looked at James, a little blankly, and then said, "At least try to listen, James. It helps quicken the whole nightmare."

_Nightmare, indeed! All this… paper, _James thought, giving an evil eye to the mountains of paper in his lap, on the dark wood desk, and the few squares littered on the crimson carpet. _I'll be mummified. Absolutely mummified with it. I won't be surprised if my very blood turns to ink an' skin turns to scratchpaper! Charles, you've—_

"James? James." Charles was pacing back and forth, pulling at his hair, "You're just not listening to me…"

Mr. Barrie looked up to his contemporary and, with a affable tone of voice, said, "Guilty as charged…"

"_James…"_ Mr. Frohman's eyes flashed wildly.

James shut his eyelids and pushed back against the leather office chair. He tiredly breathed out a "Hmm?"

No reply came but, instead, there was an ice-cold silence.

Mr. Frohman tightly folded his arms, growled slightly, and then continued racing to and fro across the office. Both of his bushy eyebrows were high up in his forehead, and his ebony eyes scanned JM Barrie from head to toe—with glitters of bitter frustration.

James sighed again, his throat becoming dry from sighing so often, and he focused his mind on the tree he was going to climb— a sturdy brown trunk with heavy, warm branches and glossy green leaves. The imagined air rippling his gray coat, the birds chirping busily in their nests, kites floating on the wind, and below him was an endless field of green and dewy grass…

… Just faintly, he could feel the hot springtime sun upon his face…

"Look, James," Said Mr. Frohman, his voice as rough as sandpaper, "You know quite well this is a business of pace. Say if a play of yours fails, money is lost…"

James grimaced. Oh, fry money! That's all that ever was discussed here, in this office—losing money, gaining money—not even the written word was sacred. The more books, greater the chance of the general populace liking the silly bit of prose, then profits, banks, maybe a loss of profits—but, all dreaded profits! James had comfortable circumstances, and was content with his social standing, but somehow Mr. Frohman had gotten it in his head that James would be happier with more attention. Thus, the endless pestering.

Really, sometimes it bled the pleasure right out of writing

"…the actors in the play get discredited, and everything falls apart. And that's bad." Charles' voice lightened to a whisper, "But, what's _worse, _James—what's worseis not producing anything. Things dry up quickly, and next thing you know nobody cares, or knows, about your work anymore. You've got to snatch it—right now, you have their attention. You got to fight to keep it. You've got plenty of stories stuffed in that head of yours, James, and I've seen good ideas from you—honestly good ideas—and all you have to do is sit down, get a pen and paper, and write. Just write, for Christ's sake."

At length James shook his head, "Charles, I've the boys, I've nanny an' their grandmother. Time's not my friend, Charles, but _you_ are. Have a bit of patience with me; I'm tryin' my best."

These words seemed to have reached Mr. Frohman's deft ear.

"It's the cost of it, isn't it? You know I'll pay for it, James…" Charles said, as he paused and stared at his friend. "I'll tackle the budget."

James felt like he would explode like a firecracker. Money again. Was it a plague? A curse? A witch's hex? He surely thought it was; because if the horrific words 'budget', 'cost' or 'payment' were said one more time, James resolved that he would storm out, crawl up the nearest tree, and not come down until the firemen came and plied him down like a pussycat.

To calm himself, he quickly got out a pen from his satchel, and took a bit of stray paper. He ripped a small piece off, and feverishly scribbled down, in inky letters— _rather than brains,_ _bank notes stuffed in his skull! Insufferable, yet completely pathetic—much like a puffed thrush, worrying about the amount of sticks and leaves and mud in his nest—_

Mr. Barrie relaxed his wrists. He calmly folded the torn paper, and tucked it into his tweed pocket.

Charles looked immensely happy.

"Good man," Mr. Frohman said, grinning like a madman. "Brilliant, James, you keep that up and we'll have a play in no time!"

"_Oh. _That's—a piece of paper, it's just a tiny thought. Nothing. An' the chances of it growin' into a play are slim."

"You," Charles' grin had vanished by now, "are the most stubborn man when it comes down to plain business, James! Do you know that?"

Mr. Barrie stared back at the man, and then the author peacefully closed his eyes. He was far too tired and uninterested to worry about all this now. He thought it best just to shut his friend Charles out of his thoughts right at the moment.

… _Come on, James. Think of the trees, think of the birds…_

"I'm sorry, but God's sake" Mr. Frohman grumbled, "Aren't you wondering about the pace of your writing? Don't you—"

James smiled, "Heads rolling is better than eyes rolling."

Frohman sighed, "What's that supposed to mean? My head can only take so much cryptic stuff, James."

"It means, Charles," James explained, "It never bodes well ta be bullied into doing whatnot. Never works, Charles, you of all people should know. I'd rather you havin' a fit, than disappointing the audience an' myself."

Mr. Frohman rubbed one large hand over his forehead, and he melted down into his leather chair. Why did James have to be so plain pig-headed when it came down to writing of the play, or going over budgets? It wasn't exactly Charles' idea of a grand time to be discussing this, to be battling for a few rough drafts out of James. Really, he knew that when Barrie had true inspiration, the man became a living play factory…all he needed was the proper push, a few jabs in the ribs to get the work started…

"So, what do you want me to do? Hmm, James?" Charles was grumbling softly, "You're slowing down, and that isn't good. Keep the pace, it's just like running a marathon, you've got keep the pace...What will make you write? I don't really have to put a gun to your head, do I?"

James Barrie's lips curled at the edges and his eyes twinkled a little as he opened them a slit. "You know, Charles, threatening me isn't going to quicken the pace of my writing."

Charles desperately put his head in his hands, "Then what _will_, James? What _will_? I don't have that much—"

"Really," James gazed up at the molding of the ceiling, "I jus' need time."

"I can't afford _time_, James. It's hard enough trying to get the—"

"Well, alrigh'," James said, "What do ya want me to do? Do you want me to write _well_, or to write _fast_?"

"Can't you do both?"

"No."

* * *

_The_ visit between Mr. Lawley (or the Dreaded Solomon Caw, as he was now dubbed), the boys (alias, the furious crew of Nibs, Curly, Slightly and Peter), and Barrie (alias, Sir Jaz Swarthy) had been truly enjoyable. 

Although none of them actually had the stomach to eat or drink…the cause being Bill's stories of ghosts and prison escapes by bloodthirsty crooks. You see, Bill was quite the authority on the mysterious and the criminal. And James found the young man interesting; the lad had small glimmers of intelligence. A very mischievous intelligence, like a wild tomcat. James liked to think the young man looked a lot like a dirty and drunken Spanish smuggler, but, of course, with suspenders.

Now, Bill preferred to be the orator of the stories, rather than act them out. I suppose he thought that such romping might be beneath him now, since he was too far big to play games without looking eccentric. This was where Bill and Peter found familiar ground, and they both conversed together about who should be cast for what part. Mr. James Barrie seemed all too eager to be cast for the villain—and, unlike Bill and Peter, he didn't mind the least if he was a grown man romping.

They had had a grand and thoroughly bloody game of Prison Escape and an equally gory adventure of Pirate. Bill and Peter had been the narrators, Mr. Barrie had been Detective William Pinkerton, Jack had been Grand Thief Adam Worth, George was the accomplice Charley "Piano" Bullard, and—reluctantly—Micheal was cast as the beauteous ladylove Kitty Flynn.

All had gone rather well, according to the story, but then 'Adam Worth' had decided to run into the kitchen, with his gang of 'Bullard' and 'Flynn' to capture one of the kitchen maids. Unwisely he had chosen to drag out poor Charlotte, who was perplexed as it was, and Mrs. Finch had come swiftly to Charlotte's rescue—shouting, spitting, and pulling a dazed Charlotte back into the kitchen.

Not too soon after that Mrs. Reid came down, brow furrowed. Everyone sobered, but they did not stop playing. And then the Nanny skulked away to sip her tea on the patio table, her eagle-eyes surveying every single move they made with disapproval.

In the end, they all killed each other in a police raid, but soon they found it in their hearts to forgive and forget the little tiff.

Mr. Barrie enjoyed it a great deal more than anyone, and he heartily gave out invitations to Bill Lawley for more visits in the future.

But…The black looks from Mrs. Reid and Emma du Maurier said plainly that this was Bill's last visit.

* * *

_Dinner_ had been a meal consumed in silence, for everyone was too busy wondering what James was doing up in his room. 

Mr. Barrie, who was accompanied by his dog, had come down only momentarily to steal a plate of food from Mrs. Finch before he scurried up the stairs again, locked his door, and had not made a noise since. Mrs. du Maurier and the Nanny seemed to find this new behavior rather pleasing, because they could now had full surveillance of the boys' decorum. James usually turned a blind eye to the boys' mischief, or, worse still, even helped them sneak an unwanted potato or spinach sprig to the eager Porthos under the table.

Probably the most offending thing James did at the table was when he fashioned games from the food. Once he made a rather convincing Mount Olympus out of mashed potatoes. And, another time, he'd stuck carrots in his gums, which made him look vaguely like a walrus—but James insisted that he was really a vampire. Yet tonight, there were no such games; only a curious silence that made everyone want to put their ears to Mr. Barrie's door and listen.

The boys thought that if they were very quiet they could hear a soft scratching come from upstairs. Peter instantly recognized it as pen on paper. The sound of writing.

Scritch-scratch…scratch-scratch-scratch…scritch


End file.
